In which the fish greets Easter Sunday

We were all there, on Easter Sunday.  

The sea, warm as my blood, rocked and danced quietly 

under an immense and luminous dome of blue.

I slipped out on the current and watched the heads of my offspring, sleek and shining with light, darting and bobbing over and under the waves.  The seagrass below waved

 like a field of green, a forgotten world.

I swam past them, and drifted awhile in the calm of the open water, breathing in and out slowly, drawing saltness and blueness deep into the heart of me. Folks sat on boards and chatted quietly waiting for waves, or dipped cupped hands along the surface, going here and there, looking for the best place. 

The ocean was soft and green out here, far from the tangle and thrust of life. I floated with my hair down like tentacles.

 I wondered what I might snare.

After some time I raised my head, and saw the horizon tilt. 

For Me?

I asked the sea.

I flipped my fins and the sea picked me up on its wavering lip. 

I stretched out my hand, holding the heel of my palm against the surface of the wave which had turned to glass as the sea rolled forward.

I was so high that I raised my head and watched the water speed beneath my hand, the froth and foam rushing, spitting out onto the dark green of itself.

I flew in like  some strange heraldic sea creature all the way to the sand, where I stood up, flicked my hair from my face,  and breathed once more

the salt of the sea, 

into every small corner of my heart.